


You Look Like a Koala

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Adorable guys being adorable, Bromance, Caring Peter, Cuddly drugged Neal, El coddling Neal, Episode: s01e10 Vital Signs, Gen, Grouchy Peter and El, Humor, Neal acting like a koala, Neal singing, Protective El, Protective Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from Vital Signs. Basically an excess of adorability, with cuddly Neal acting like a koala and Peter being grouchy and protective. Peter figures something important out about his CI (besides the fact that he's impossible to keep a seat belt on when drugged!), and Neal practices his singing-while-drugged skills on an unappreciative Peter and a very sympathetic El.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Look Like a Koala

“Neal, stop singing. Please, for the love of aural sanity, stop singing.”

“Hiiiiiiiiigh on a winnnnnnndyyyyyyy hill....”

“Neal, are you just messing with me now?”

“C’mon, sing along,” urged Neal. “We can be a quartet.”

“I think you mean a duo.”

“I don’t want to duel you. Especially not after you stole that tape for me. You saved me from prison, di’nt you? Don’t waaaaaaannnnnt -”

“Neal, shut up,” said Peter through gritted teeth as the singing started again.

He was going to be a hell of a lot more relaxed when he got Neal safely out of the parking lot and far, far away from this damn “clinic.”

Peter pulled the seat belt across Neal’s chest and fastened it. Neal grinned and released it. Peter fastened it again, and grabbed Neal’s wrist when it snuck towards the release. “It’s a seat belt, not a restraint. It’s _supposed_ to stay on.”

“You’re nice,” said Neal sleepily while Peter started the car. Peter gave an anxious glance around for pursuers and shifted into reverse.

“No, I’m not.” Neal’s hand started towards the release again. “You’ll find out if you keep taking that belt off.”

Aaand it was off again as soon as they pulled out of the parking space. Peter sighed, fastened it once more, and grabbed his handcuffs. “Neal, give me your wrists.”

Neal did, with the same heartbroken, compliant, complete acceptance that had wrenched Peter's heart when he slumped against the wall in the conference room. Neal had so much fight in him, and never used it that way. He’d given Peter permission, heart and soul, to control his future.

Peter fastened the handcuffs loosely so Neal could slip out with a modicum of effort. A worried voice and a set of cuffed hands poked at him as he pulled out of the clinic parking lot. “Am I in trouble again?”

“No, Neal,” he said, gently pushing his hands away. “You’re not in trouble. I just wanted to give you something to escape from. Take them off.”

The Howser Clinic had finally vanished from his rear view mirror when Neal, having thankfully ditched the handcuffs and forgotten about the seat belt, leaned over and latched onto Peter’s right arm with both of his arms like a koala, leaning against Peter’s side and resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder with a look of bliss. “You’re warm,” said Neal.

“Yeah. I’m strong, nice, and warm. I’m also gonna throttle you if you’re milking this.”

The lack of reply was odd. Neal’s eyes were closed, and he was sound asleep. Peter sighed, smiled, and resigned himself to driving home without the use of his right arm.

They were stuck in traffic long enough for his felon-turned-koala to regain consciousness. Peter happened to be looking at him when his eyes opened, and caught a glimpse of pure terror that instantly eased into wonder and complete trust. “You really took that tape? I’m - not goin - going to back to prison?”

Peter was reeling from that a bit himself. He had never confiscated evidence to destroy it in his entire career, and never wanted to again. But when he’d opened the door and seen Neal in those restraints, he’d instantly known he would do anything including move heaven and earth if it would mean Neal would be okay. _Anything_.

“Yes, I took it. No, you’re not going back. Not this time. And you look like a koala.”

He hated seeing the glazed, drugged film in the intelligent blue eyes looking into his from inches away. But he was awed by the trust and love in them.

Neal was trying to process the koala bit. When he figured it out, he blinked a few times and released his grip on Peter’s arm. “I didn’t say I trusted you to try and esca - uh - get out of the whole prison thing. Just wan you to know - before we said - before we said bye.”

Neal looked almost ready to cry when he said that, about saying goodbye, and suddenly any regret Peter might have had about taking the tape vanished. He hugged Neal with his recently freed arm. “I know, Neal. I knew.”

Neal slumped against Peter’s side with a content sigh and started practicing scales, before going back into koala mode and warbling off into sleep.

He’d been operating on pure instinct when he’d handcuffed Neal to the chair, an act both rather unnecessary and completely ineffectual.

_You just said you trust me, prove it._

If Neal stayed in those cuffs in a dangerous environment while facing prison, it would be because Peter told him so and for no other reason. And obeying Peter’s order would take intense trust and sacrifice.

Neal stayed. He hadn’t even slipped or unlocked and then pretended to wear them. He left himself locked to the chair and fell asleep.

It was touching and heartbreaking, how little he’d really had to do to earn the sincere trust of a man who trusted nobody. It said chilling things about the company he kept and the bereft life he lived.

They pulled into the driveway at home, and Peter poked him until he woke up. “You’re cuddly,” said Peter, mimicking Neal’s format.

Neal nodded, his eyes still closed. “You too.”

“Fantastic,” said Peter in a dry voice. “The felon in my custody thinks I’m cuddly.”

“Ss a good thing,” said a very sleepy Neal. “We home?”

“We’re at _my_ home,” said Peter.

“Kin I sleep here?”

“In the car?”

“In - the - home,”

“Yes, Neal. I’m dragging you inside, and you can go to sleep on the couch.”

Neal’s eyes half-closed, and his face held a content smile. He fumbled with the door, got it open, and released the seat belt before he encountered an insurmountable obstacle.

“Um - Peter? You gonna help me with the....standy-uppy thing?”

Peter chuckled. “Yes, Neal, I will help you out of the car.”

Neal looked at him earnestly. “You’re nice.”

“Any other day, you’d disagree with yourself strongly,” said Peter.

“I’d - disagree with myself?” Neal blinked, trying to wrap his head around that impossible concept.

“Come on.” Peter hauled Neal up out of the seat. He had some tiny amount of growing strength in his muscles now, and he used it to wrap his arms around Peter as if the whole point of lifting Neal up was to hug him. But the guy was so weak.

Peter remembered the utter horror, in every cell of his being, when he saw Neal restrained like that. The fear that raced up his spine, the feeling of being punched in the gut and gasping for air. _They tortured him. Please, please tell me they didn’t -_ And the utter relief and love he felt when Neal was Neal and gave him that smug look as he pulled effortlessly free, and it was plain that Neal was drugged out of his mind but not hurt.

But he was so bloody vulnerable, even now. He couldn’t stand assisted, let alone walk. And Neal, cynical, self-protecting Neal with all his trust issues, should have been terrified by that vulnerability. Instead the lack of inhibition was showing deep trust, and immense affection.

It took most of Peter’s remaining strength to get him from the car to the house, and his muscles were trying to give out while he held Neal up with one hand and unlocked the door with the other. Peter kicked the door open ahead of them, managing to get Neal over carpet before dropping him.

“Peter!”

Peter winced at the fury in El’s voice.

“I didn’t do it, hon. He’s drugged. He’s okay.”

Peter knelt beside Neal to make sure that he was, in fact, okay. Neal gave him a completely adoring look. “Thankss....for saving me, Peter.”

Satchmo had been sniffing Neal over carefully, and started nudging the side of his face with a wet nose and a worried whine. Neal scrunched up his face and turned his head away in protest. “Nice - dog - stop - stop it!”

“You _dropped_ him.” El sat down by Neal’s other side, reserving her ire for Peter and her worry for Neal.

Neal beamed at her. “Hi, El!”

“He looks little,” said Peter. “But after you been dragging him around for a while, he gets heavy.”

“I’m not little!” complained Neal. “Mozzie’s little.”

“No, sweetie, you aren’t,” said El, patting his hand.

“Sweetie?” asked Peter. “So the convicted felon who broke into an office and put us both in danger is ‘ _sweetie’_ now?”

“Peter....” Neal’s complaint started out as a humorous whine, but crumbled halfway through into what sounded like pleading for forgiveness.

Peter sighed, rolled his eyes, and crumbled himself, patting Neal on the head. “It’s okay, Neal.”

Neal pushed his head against Peter’s hand, entwined his fingers in El’s, and closed his eyes in bliss. Peter sighed. He _was_ a sweet guy.

Among other things.

El ran her fingers through his hair with her free hand with an affectionate smile, and Neal heaved the most contented sigh imaginable.

“Come on, Neal,” said Peter, unable to keep from smiling. “Let’s get you on the couch.”

“I’ll do it,” said El with protective ferocity. She quickly found out it was harder than it looked, and got caught up in struggling to drag Neal any way she could, yanking and trying to drag him by the arm.

Peter grimaced. “Uh - hon?”

“What?” She glared at Peter, obviously expecting a challenge to her strength.

“I think you’re gonna dislocate his shoulder if you keep that up. All _I_ did was drop ‘im a few times.”

“Hon?” The word came out aggressive. Very aggressive. “If I’m ever completely helpless, and you go around dumping me on the floor like a sack of potatoes and say all you did was drop me a few times, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay, okay,” said Peter. “But could you please get mad at the people who drugged him and strapped him down to a bed, for now? He was in real danger.”

“Strapped him -” El’s eyes widened, and she grimaced. “Is he-”

“He’s fine,” said Peter. He reached out and touched Neal’s arm just to reassure himself.

“You got a comfy floor,” said Neal with a pleased smile.

“Wait until you meet my couch,” said Peter.

On a count of three, Peter and El heaved him onto the couch. Neal smiled happily. “Comfy. Thanks. You two are pretty cool, you know that?”

“How are you feeling?” asked El, worried.

“Head hurts,” complained Neal.

“Really?” said Peter. “I thought it was too hard to succumb to such weakness.”

“I’m not weak! They stuck a big needle in me! Really, really big, like -” Neal used his hands to indicate a length of about two feet. “Went halfway through my arm, not my fault my head hurts.”

“Where?” asked Peter.

“In my - brain?” guessed Neal.

“No, where were you injected?”

Neal’s hand went up to his right arm, and where he pointed was a visible needle mark and bruises were already starting to form. “It really, really hurt."

El went to get ice and Tylenol. Peter felt a pang of guilt at not helping her, but he was just....reluctant to leave Neal. He was helpless, and putting enormous trust in Peter. Least Peter could do was stay right there with him. Even in his own house. Nothing would hurt him there, and Neal was far from scared. But Neal needed to learn what it was like to be protected when he was down.

“Hiiiiiiiiiii-”

“NO!”

“Don’t _yell_ at him,” said El with a protective ferocity of her own. She pressed a bag of ice to his head, then helped him swallow the pills. “Drink the rest of the water,” she urged.

Neal did, mainly to satisfy her. “S’ okay if Peter yells. Not mean.”

Peter grinned at El, and El glared at Neal. “Never get between husband and wife, _sweetie_.” She pulled Neal up to a sitting position and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Wait - “ said Peter. “I piss you off, you start _undressing another man_ in front of me? Harsh.”

“Go find a cute suspect and give her a nice back massage,” retorted El. She helped Neal pull his arms out of the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“Wha - is there some secret section I missed in first aid class where you’re supposed to strip drugged felons?” asked Peter.

“I need a nice back massage....” suggested Neal.

“Lemme go grab a baton off a NYPD officer and I’ll give you one,” said Peter.

She eased him back down on the couch. “He’s wearing a t-shirt. And it’s not first aid, it’s comfort. Go get him a blanket.”

Peter stood, and looked at Satchmo at the foot of the couch with his worried-dog expression and his chin on Neal’s leg. El, patting him on the shoulder with her other hand rested lightly across his bruised arm. Neal, face tilted towards her with an adoring expression.

“Think, Neal. _Think_ ,” said Peter. “Before you go running off on a lark - you could have been killed. You could have been tortured, and you should be on your way back to a damn prison cell!”

Neal looked hurt. “Wasn’t a lark. June’s granddaughter’s - _dying_. Told you already.”

_It’s not about money, it’s about people._

He broke out of prison heedless of the consequences when he was worried about Kate.

It _was_ about people.

His selfish, grandstanding con artist would do anything for the people he cared about. Regardless of risk or cost or perhaps even whether it stood even the smallest chance of working.

“You did,” said Peter. “I don’t think I understood, that’s all.”

Neal’s eyes were roaming the ceiling. “No stumbling blocks can block my plan,” he sang, not at Peter but with idle boredom. “Whatever I got I'll run and give you half....And in the world if I don't succeed....Baby, I'd be rather be, you and me....I keep on trying, baby, can't you see I'm trying....Everyday when I get up and go to work....I'm trying, trying to make you happyyyyyyyyyy-”

El stood and hugged him lightly from behind. “I’ll get the blanket.”

“Enough,” said Peter firmly, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re singing’s improving, but you still gotta bit of sleeping it off to do before you hit American Idol.”

“Okay,” said Neal, looking sleepy and confused, and trying again for the koala-grip on Peter’s arm.

“Look at me,” commanded Peter. “What I do, it’s not about the law, it’s about people too. I care about you, you idiot. I don’t care about the damn case, I want my Neal Caffrey free and in one piece at the end of the day. This is about you, and I care about you. Please, _please_ , learn to think.”

“You really care about me?” asked Neal, looking touched and worried.

“Yes. Yes. Neal, you’re - of _course_ I do, you little idiot koala.”

“Huh.” He sounded dazed and thoughtful.

“Listen - when you go through Quantico - they’re teaching a bunch of brave, idealistic, protective people. We were practically itching for ‘how to throw yourself in front of a bullet’ class. They made us understand we have to put our safety - maybe not ahead of others, but at least on the same level. We have to drive carefully even if it’s agony wondering if we’re gonna be too late, because it’s better taking another thirty seconds to arrive than not get there at all. If we’re out of the game, we can’t help _anyone_.”

“Huh.” Neal’s eyes were drifting closed, and he tightened his grip on Peter’s arm and snuggled his forehead against Peter’s shoulder.

Then he started snoring.

Loudly.

El dashed into the room, holding a blanket. “What’s wrong with him?”

She stopped, and started smiling. “Oh.” She draped the blanket over Neal’s sleeping body, and kissed Peter, and patted Satchmo. “Good boys.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from "I'm Trying" by Johnnie Taylor.


End file.
